


start by pulling him out of the fire

by misandrywitch



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Hufflepuff Mickey, Slytherin Ian, Werewolf Ian, happy birthday tessa!, these are the three key components to a good proper shameless hogwarts au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2166432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's bad luck to have one werewolf in the family, especially one who takes off when Fiona is a teenager and never looks back. It could, in theory happen to anyone. It's horrible, of course, terrible. But just bad luck. </p><p>Two of them though? That's a sign the universe fucking hates you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	start by pulling him out of the fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delgay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgay/gifts).



> i've been half-promising to tessa delgay that i'd write something in the hogwarts au that i can't stop talking about and since it's her BIRTHDAY i figured now was a good a time as any to start it! i hope you're GLAD. happy birthday, i'm so glad i met you, i love you and i'm gay. 
> 
> i'll probably write a more cohesive hogwarts au fic eventually that goes deeper into the milkovich and gallagher backstories etc but you all will have to wait on that one until folk band au is done. whenever that will be.
> 
> shittybknights.tumblr.com

By the time Ian gets to Hogwarts, the Gallaghers are infamous. 

Frank Gallagher isn't far enough gone from anyone's memory so really they're infamous even before Fiona goes to school, but Fiona is a star Quidditch player (a Chaser) and Lip is Lip, and by the time Ian gets there everyone seems to know who they are, or at least know a few key facts about them. 

There's a billion of them, they're Pureblood, Irish and mostly in Gryffindor. Their father's an alcoholic deadbeat, responsible for  at least 10 new school rules and a fire in Gryffindor tower during his time there, and they're dirt poor. And their mother is a werewolf. 

Almost all of these things are a recipe for merciless teasing, especially since Ian's the first Slytherin Gallagher in, well, ever, but the last one most of all. They're followed by hostile, curious glances and pointed questions about times of the month, and mean jokes. Fiona is well-known around the school for hexing a girl who mocked their mother her second week there, and Ian and Lip and Debbie and Carl have done their fair share of it too. The teachers largely feel bad for them, when they aren't exasperatedly rolling their eyes or getting angry at their exploits. 

"Those poor kids," they say, "mother taking off like that and father-- well--" This is usually followed by a shake of the head. "It's just bad luck." 

It's bad luck to have one werewolf in the family, especially one who takes off when Fiona is a teenager and never looks back. It could, in theory happen to anyone. It's horrible, of course, terrible. But just bad luck.  

Two of them though? That's a sign the universe fucking hates you. 

 

 

 

 

When they come back to school after Christmas break, Ian won’t speak to Mickey.

There was a point, about midway through his fifth year, where Mickey would have embraced the silence with relief. Ian Gallagher is Mandy’s age, a year below Mickey, and in Slytherin. A red-haired, freckle-faced stick of a kid who always seems to be carting around a pile of books (he has an interest in reading the exploits of old Aurors that almost borders on an obsession) and arguing with his countless siblings in the hallways of the castle. He and Mandy had become inexplicable friends their first year and have been all but attached at the hip since then. He practically never shuts up. It usually drives Mickey completely round the bend.

Until this year of course, when it all changed and Ian came back from the summer taller than Mickey. He runs laps sometimes when the Hufflepuff Quidditch team is practicing, and his shoulders are freckled and his hair red-gold. Not that Mickey would ever admit things were different. No way. He doesn’t hate Gallagher’s company and he’s gotten used to it, over the last few months, even his inane chatter.

But Ian won’t speak to him.

Mickey’s never had the opportunity to taste _Felix felicis,_ but he imagines that it probably tastes a little like the way the air smells every time he steps through Platform 9 and 3/4. Exceptional. Magical. Like freedom. The platform is dusted with post New Years snow and the cold air makes the faces of the students and their families pink. Mandy, her red and gold scarf wrapped around her neck, dashes off leaving her trunk behind to hug friends, and Mickey stands still for a minute and takes it all in, breathing deep. Then he grabs the handle of Mandy’s trunk and starts to pull it towards the train, pausing briefly to extend his middle finger towards the wall he’d walked through, a private _fuck you_ to the people he’s walking away from.

He finds Mandy in the middle of a veritable herd of Gallaghers, seven of them plus trunks and a few owls and Debbie Gallagher’s giant black cat. Ian had scooped Mandy up and he’s setting her down in the snow and Mickey stops for a second and stares at him. Something is wrong. Something is different. At first he thinks maybe it’s because Ian looks a little taller, nothing like the way he’d shot up between last school year and this one, but a little. But when Ian glances his way he knows that isn’t it. Maybe he’s been ill? His face looks unusually pale, freckles standing out on his forehead like marks from a red pen, the dark bags under his eyes big enough that they could carry the contents of Mickey’s school trunk. He looks like something’s been drawn out of him. There’s a healing injury, three cuts arching down over his chin and the side of his left face.

“Gallagher,” Mickey says, and tries to ignore how hard his heart is beating in his ribcage and how it’s been that way since he saw Ian. “How’s it hanging?”

Ian isn’t meeting his eyes. “Fine,” he says.

 _Fine?_ “Cut yourself shaving?” Mickey points with a gloved hand to the cuts on Ian’s face. Something in Ian’s eyes tightens, closes down. Mickey had expected him to make a face or roll his eyes and he doesn’t do anything.”Or you lose a fight with a lawnmower?” He chuckles. Ian doesn’t do anything. Mandy, however, puts her hand on Ian’s arm, her fingers curling around his bicep. “You use it to cut grass,” Mickey continues. “Push it around. Blades with wheels—not complicated.”

“I know what a lawnmower is,” Ian says and, unbelievably, he turns his back on Mickey and starts pulling his trunk in the direction of the train. Mandy follows him, glancing over her shoulder with a shrug.

“What the fuck—“ Mickey’s voice trails off in the chilly air. Ian, who has spent the last year invading Mickey’s privacy and bugging him when he’s trying to run Quidditch drills on his own and trying to make him laugh with stupid fucking jokes that don’t ever make any sense because Mickey rarely understands the references. Ian, who’s spent the last few months conveniently bumping into Mickey in the Prefect’s bathroom and abandoned classrooms and two particularly memorable moments in the Quidditch shed. Ian just walked away from him?

“The fuck you looking at?” Mickey snaps at Lip Gallagher, who is watching him with his eyebrows raised. He pushes past them to go find his friends on the train.

 

 

 

 

They’re almost to Hogwarts, Mickey and his friends (mostly the other members of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team) have changed into their school robes eating sweets and drinking hot chocolate as the snow brushes past the train windows, when Mickey sees Ian pass by the window of their train compartment. He jumps up and bangs open the door before Ian can get too far, grabs him by the arm so he can’t keep going. Ian’s school robes are an inch or two too short at the wrist and ankles, and pretty shabby, so Mickey’s fingers catch his bare skin.

“Hold up a sec,” he says. Ian has no choice but to stop in the crowded passageway. He turns around to face Mickey but doesn’t speak.

“I got your letter,” Mickey says. “Terry was pissed, big fucking owl flying into the window. Tried to shoot at it and it almost pecked his hand off.”

The corner of Ian’s mouth twitches.

“You alright, Gallagher?” Mickey asks. “Only you look like you ate a bucket full of flobberworms and they’re coming back up for air.” He smiles, expecting Ian to crack up like he does whenever Mickey uses Wizarding expressions.

“I’ve been ill,” Ian says. Up close, it’s really obvious. Even his wrists feel skinnier under Mickey’s fingers, and the rings under his eyes are like bruises under his pale skin.

“That’s shitty, mate,” Mickey says. “I bet I’ve got the thing to fix it though.” He grins, pleased with himself. “Iggy gave me a present. More than a few ounces of a present. After dinner? Behind greenhouse six?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Fine, I’ll break into your common room them if you’re scared of the weather.” Mickey smirks. He’s done it before, once. But Ian shakes his head, a sharp, precise movement.

“No,” Ian says, and his voice and his eyes go hard in a way Mickey has never really seen them. “That’s not a good idea either.”

Mickey stares at him. Ian’s chin is out and his eyes are fixed on a spot just a little over Mickey’s head. “What the fuck do you want, then?” he snaps.

“For you to leave me alone,” Ian says this slowly and clearly, and then he turns around and continues walking up the passageway.

 

 

 

 

A week later, Mickey catches Lip Gallagher as they’re leaving double Potions with the Ravenclaw house. It’s a decision that’s boring on desperation, though of course Mickey would never admit that to anyone. Mickey doesn’t like Lip Gallagher. Never has. Lip is full of himself, and seems to ride the coattails of his charm and natural talents so well that somebody, fuck knows who, decided fifth year he should be a Prefect. He has a smirk that sets Mickey’s teeth on edge, and Mickey is positive Lip likes him just as much. But he can’t get more than a passing glance out of Ian, and Mandy knows but won’t tell, so Lip it is.

“What’s your brother’s deal, then?” Mickey says to Lip as they’re filtering out of the classroom at the end of a row of students. It’s a pretty innocuous question but Lip whirls around like Mickey’s thrown a punch at him and his wand is out and up in Mickey’s face before Mickey can draw his own.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Lip snaps. Mickey shoves his hand away from his face.

“Cool it, Rambo,” he says. The set of Lip’s eyebrows indicate he’s got no idea who Rambo is. “Just a question. He’s been acting weird, s’all.”

“Since when are you and Ian friends?” Lip stares at him for a minute more, then he does put his wand away.

“Who said we are?”

“Then why do you care?”

“Don’t.”

Lip’s face is caught comically somewhere between confusion and irritation. “Then I don’t see why I should tell you,” he shrugs.

“Cause I’ll bash your fucking face in if you don’t,” Mickey growls, but Lip is already walking away.

 

 

 

 

For a month after Ian returns to Hogwarts, he has nightmares. They are, he supposes, pretty typical considering what’s happened. Dark snow-covered woods. Claws on the icy ground. Teeth illuminated by the round moon overhead. A taste in his mouth; sharp, tangy, coppery red and more horrifying still a wild, exhilarated excitement. He knows they’re not real, not at all, but they’re a reminder of what he’s been turned into and what he is. Infected. Sick. Ian is dangerous.

Monica could never make herself take the Wolfsbane Potion consistently for long and Ian makes himself down the smoking, foul-smelling liquid for three days before the full moon right after Christmas. It’s expensive, and an absolute requirement for him to come back to school as a treatment for what’s described as ‘clinical lycanthropy’. He’s almost tempted, the first time he’s faced with it, to knock it over and run and say ‘Fuck you, fuck this, my life is over anyway why should I even try?’ He would have, if his siblings hadn’t pooled their money to purchase it for him in advance.

The only person he tells is Mandy. He would put his life into Mandy’s hands, if asked, and never worry for a minute that she’d drop it. They’re sitting in the Owlery together, in the chilly January air, and he shrugs his robes and scarf aside to bare his shoulder as he talks through numb lips. Mandy’s face is expressionless. She runs her finger over the gouges on his left shoulder, scars that won’t go away no matter what potions or spells are applied to them. She doesn’t cry, which Ian is thankful for, because it feels like his family has done enough of that. Her face gets hard and mean and she bares her teeth when she speaks.

“I’ll fucking kill them,” she says. Her fingers are cold on Ian’s bare shoulder. It feels like she’s making contact with somebody else’s body, like the one Ian is inhabiting no longer belongs to him. It no longer makes sense, it doesn’t fit. He can do things he’s never been able to do before. He can smell Mandy’s anger.

That was one of the first things Ian had noticed when he’d really come to in the hospital. His siblings had been standing at the edge of his bed talking quietly to each other, Fiona in a whisper, and Ian could hear every word. But more than that, Ian could _smell_ them. He could smell the exact brand of cigarettes Lip had been smoking, precisely what Kev had eaten for breakfast the day before, the dirt ground into Carl’s robes, Debbie’s fear. An instinct, born for hunting.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he tells Mandy. “It’s a monster. It’s dangerous.”

“I don’t care,” Mandy says. “I don’t care how dangerous it is. I still will.” Her conviction is so complete that Ian can’t help but crack a smile. It doesn’t feel like it fits on his face and it probably looks grotesque (there’s a scar, from the wolf’s front claws, on his chin) but it still happens. They walk back into the warmth of the castle together, holding hands.

Mandy’s promises are empty, because they haven’t been able to identify who it was that bit Ian, because once the deed is done there isn’t really any way to tell. But he knows she says them because she wants to be able to protect him. He’s said similar things about the people who hurt her.

 

 

 

 

 

Nobody’s going to want to hire a werewolf as an Auror. Nobody. It isn’t illegal for him to be hired, not exactly, but the idea is still so impossible it’s almost laughable. A werewolf Auror. Right. More likely to eat suspects than interrogate them. Nobody could feel safe turning their backs on him, never completely trust him.

That’s another thing Ian feels, and he notices it after the first full moon. It becomes clear over the course of the first month back at school; he’s unstable. He’s never felt unstable. He’s always known what he wants and where he’s going and exactly what he has to do to get there. His parents coast their way through their lives, the rest of them get by, Ian is driven, Ian has a plan.

Until he doesn’t, because of this. He goes through the motions, goes to class and sometimes completes his assignments and tries not to think that none of it fucking matters anymore. He can feel it and it’s deeper than just the way his body rearranges itself to be shaped like something it’s not. It’s in his blood and his skin and bones and guts and in his breath. It pulls him, swings him like he’s clinging onto the edge of a rope the way the moon pushes and pulls the tide. In to hug the shore and then out, and then crashing in again, smashing against rocks.

Halfway through the month, on the day when the moon is nothing more than a silvery sliver in a cloudy sky, Ian can’t make himself get out of bed. Two weeks later, two days before the full moon, he can’t make himself fall asleep.

This is what he’s thinking about as he’s sitting by himself in the kitchen around midnight glaring at the empty still-smoking goblet sitting on the table in front of him, when Mickey storms in. He stops dead when he sees Ian sitting at the table alone, like he didn’t actually expect to find him there.

They stare at each other. They haven’t been alone in a room together since—since before. Since before they went home for Christmas, and—

He’s avoided Mickey since Mickey tried to talk to him on the train, mostly by keeping his eyes open and heading in the other direction when he saw him coming. He’d thought Mickey had given up. He’d thought Mickey hadn’t really wanted to talk to him anyway.

And Ian doesn’t want Mickey to know. He likes Mickey, more than he should, and he thought maybe there was a chance—but no, it’s just something else that’s gone to hell, that he can never get back.

“So,” Mickey crosses his arms over his chest. He’s wearing his school robes, no tie, and underneath them Ian can see the collar of a t-shirt with the logo of a punk rock band he made Ian listen to a few times. Mickey’s introduced him to a lot of things. Ballpoint pens. The cinema. Fist fighting. “What is it?”

“What?” Ian says, feeling slow on the uptake.

“I’ll bite,” Mickey’s voice is trying to sound sarcastic and he almost pulls it off but Ian can feel it almost in the air around them. He’s furious, and trying to hide it. “You win. This little waiting game, or whatever the fuck has been happening here. I give in.”

Ian takes a deep breath. “Just go away,” he says, his voice strangled. “Mickey, just go away.”

“Not until you tell me why the fuck you’ve been avoiding me, huh?” Mickey demands.

“It’s not—I don’t want to talk about it,” Ian says. He doesn’t look Mickey in the eye. He wants him to leave, because if he doesn’t Ian will tell him, Ian will throw himself on the mercy of Mickey Milkovich and he doesn’t want to do that to Mickey, doesn’t know if he can trust him or trust himself. “I don’t want to talk to you. Just--- just go.” 

“Bloody hell, Gallagher!” Mickey snaps. “It’s been a bloody month, what the fuck is up your ass?” Ian is surprised to find he’s digging his fingers into the wooden tabletop. He makes himself let go. There are four crescent-moon shaped marks bruised into the wood. “You mad at me?” Mickey continues hotly. “Tell me why. This is some passive aggressive bullshit that I do not have time for. Real dramatic. Keep it up and I’ll knock your fucking teeth in.”

“This isn’t about you,” Ian says. He stands up in what he hopes is a very final way. His heart rate has skyrocketed and he feels shaky and on the edge of something very ugly and hot. He can hear Mickey’s heartbeat, his pulse in his neck and his breathing, which is a little uneven. Ian can smell it, his tiny human body that’s strong but not that strong. Ian’s own body is too strong now. It doesn’t make sense. He can’t control it.

“It’s not?” Mickey snaps, crossing and then uncrossing his arms. Ian used to be scared of him, when Mickey was Mandy’s big mean older brother. Ian is taller than he is, and his shadow stretches even farther now. He’s still scared of Mickey, but for different reasons. “It’s not because—“ Mickey’s voice wavers just a little. Anyone else wouldn’t even hear it. Ian does. “Because we kissed before we got on the train.” Mickey’s face shuts down, his eyes skim the room.

This stops Ian dead. He stares across the kitchen. He can still feel Mickey’s mouth, brief and hot, his lips chapped, against his. He’d kissed him after months of Ian wanting him to, months of Ian thinking about it, wishing it would happen, then run to the train with his middle finger in the air. And now it can’t matter.

“No,” he says. “No it isn’t, I promise, I can’t tell you but it’s not that, it—“

“That’s the first fucking thing you’ve said to me that I’ve actually believed,” Mickey says. “So just tell me.”

“Just leave me the fuck alone!” Ian shouts. His body moves without his really being aware of it and the table he was sitting at tips, clattering to the floor halfway across the room.

Mickey uncrosses his arms. “Alright,” he says, “fine. Have it your way, then.”  And he turns around and leaves Ian to stare at the overturned table.

 

 

 

 

Mickey is half-asleep and freezing his ass off halfway through an Astronomy class when he has the beginnings of an idea. It comes to him very suddenly, a little half-formed theory. They’re supposed to be filling in star charts but the sky is overcast and the going slow and Mickey has all but decided he’d rather just get low marks then continue to try and trace the stars in the sky. He has other things on his mind. Hufflepuff is playing Slytherin next week, and Slytherin has the best set of Chasers in the school so their whole team is nervous. He has an enormous essay due in Charms that he has no idea how to even begin to start. Terry broke probation and is probably going back to jail for a while, according to a letter from his brother. Gallagher’s in the hospital. Mandy had told him this somewhat reluctantly after begging a few joints off him the other day. In the hospital overnight, she won’t tell him why. A relapse, or something.

But there’s a moment where the clouds disperse, and their Astronomy professor claps excitedly at the sight of the moon, and it catches his attention.

“Look at that!” She says. The moon is enormous and yellowish, almost orange, framed in wisps of cloud that looks grey in the black sky. “What a beautiful sight,” their professor says. “Just a day past full.”

Mickey blinks up at it. It is a day past full, huge and luminous and not really pretty at all. It’s sort of scary, too large and too weirdly colored, hanging in the sky like it doesn’t belong there. Mickey’s palms itch under his thick gloves.

The clouds come back a few minutes later, obscuring the moon’s face again, but Mickey keeps staring up at it long after everyone else has gone back to huddling in their scarves. He chews his lip. It has to be a coincidence, right? Ian getting laid up in the hospital the day after a full moon, just a coincidence. Mickey tries to dredge up everything he might remember about werewolves from Defense Against the Dark Arts. He doesn’t remember a whole lot of specifics. You turn into a giant fucking wolf once a month. It takes its toll on you in the meantime.

It’s a ridiculous thought. But not completely out of the question—right?

 

 

 

 

In order for someone to transform into a werewolf, they have to die. 

On the full moon, the human body undergoes a dramatic transformation. Teeth lengthen, fingers erupt into claws, skin sprouts hair and the spine elongates into a tail. The entire skeletal structure rearranges itself, neck stretching, shoulder blades pushing up onto the top of the rib cage, ribs getting wider and broader, hips adjusting to fit the movements of a creature more accustomed to walking on four legs than two. The skull stretches and lengthens. The eyes collapse into widening sockets, then regrow. Internal organs follow suit, rearranging themselves to fit into a body shaped nothing like it was an hour before. Lungs, stomach, liver and kidneys and intestines follow the spine and ribs as the change finishes. 

And in order to accommodate all this rapid change, a lycanthrope's life support system must shut down and then restart. Somewhere between the body's generation of claws and nails and hair and the expansion of the ribs, the heart can no longer stand the massive trauma it is being put through, and it fails. It goes through, essentially, a series of massive heart attacks, and then stops beating altogether. It lasts for maybe five minutes. 

In order for someone to transform into a werewolf, they have to die. Once a month. Forever. 

Mickey reads this information several times, peering so intently at the pages of the book he's checked out from the library that he feels a bit cross-eyed and sick to his stomach. The library is busy and loud with late afternoon studiers, but he's hardly noticed. He's been sitting by himself at a table in the back for two hours, though it feels like much longer, and he knows that if he doesn't get up and act soon, he never will. Mickey stacks up the books and returns them to a cart to be filed, takes a deep breath.

 

 

 

 

“Is Gallagher a werewolf?”

Mickey barks this into Mandy’s ear as she passes him in the hallway on her way to dinner. She stops dead, nearly tripping two first year girls walking behind her. When she turns around her face tells Mickey all he needs to know. She looks mean, like she’s not fucking around. She sinks her nails into Mickey’s elbow to hold him still.

“Keep your fucking voice down,” she hisses. “Who told you—Mickey—“

Mickey shakes himself free from her grip and jogs in the direction of the Slytherin common room.

 

 

 

 

Mickey finds his way into the Slytherin dungeon by bullying the wall that protects the entrance. The long, low room is only half full of students, and they all glance up as Mickey storms through the door.

“Where’s Gallagher?” He demands. “He’s here, ain’t he?”

“In his room,” someone, a dark-haired girl, says. “Don’t break anything, for the love of Merlin.” Mickey flips her the bird as he walks past.

Ian’s door is unlocked so Mickey walks in without knocking; Ian is sitting on his bed with a book in his hands and he doesn’t really seem to be reading it.

“Oi!” One of Ian’s roommates, some guy who’s name Mickey has never bothered to actually find out, stands up. “Excuse you!”

“Get the fuck out,” Mickey says. When the kid opens his mouth to protest Mickey cracks his knuckles. “Go!” He leaves, and the door bangs shut behind him. Ian and Mickey are alone, and suddenly Mickey has no idea what to say. Ian speaks first which is okay, because Ian seems to be better at it anyway.

“Did you put it together, then?” He says. “You did your snooping. You figured it out. Should have expected you too, I guess. You pleased with yourself? You happy?”

“No,” Mickey surprises himself by saying. Ian looks like shit and more than that, he looks sad. “Not really, but you didn’t leave me any bloody choice you know!”

“What?” Ian stands up and his chin juts out. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You gonna throw some more furniture at me?” Mickey snaps. Ian crosses his arms over his chest and looks pointedly in the other direction. “Who the fuck would I have told?”

“It’s not about people knowing—it’s about—it’s about you knowing-- “ Ian blurts out so violently he seems to startle himself. “You want me to just dump this shit on you, because you’ve never acted this way before, you’ve never acted like you give a shit about me and anyway, I didn’t want you to know, I don’t want you think that I’m—“

“That you’re what?” Mickey says. “Kinda hairy once a month? Eating your steaks a little rarer? Why the fuck does it matter?”

“A monster!” Ian shouts. “That’s what I mean. Look.” He grabs the collar of his robes and shoves them down over his left shoulder, and Mickey catches his breath.

There’s a scar there that wasn’t there before, huge and painful-looking and clearly shaped like teeth marks. Two incisors are clear on the front of Ian’s shoulder, two curving around over the top. Mickey wants to reach out and run his thumb over the edge and he doesn’t, of course, but he wants to.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “That looks like it fucking hurts.”

“Yeah,” Ian’s voice is shaky. “It did.”

“You can tell people you fought off a bear, though. Or a shark. Is a shark a better story?”

Ian blinks at him and his mouth moves soundlessly for a second. “You—maybe you don’t get it. Why would you, I guess, Mandy didn’t either, you are—“

“What? Muggleborn?”

“Most people would turn around and run,” Ian says.

“Why?” Mickey puts his hands on his hips.

“I’m dangerous,” Ian’s voice quavers a little. “That should be obvious.”

This statement is so ridiculous that Mickey can’t help but laugh. Ian is gangly in a doesn’t-fit-into-his-limbs way, Ian has huge sad green eyes and cute freckles and long, clever fingers. Ian is not dangerous. “I can still take you on,” he says.

Ian snorts. “I really doubt that,” he says, and there is almost humor in his voice for a second.  He lets his collar go to cover the scar. “This isn’t a joke, it’s not funny. I’m serious. I’m not safe, and it’s not safe for you to—“

“I know dangerous,” Mickey snaps, and he knows that he doesn’t have to name names for Ian to know exactly who he’s talking about. “ And it’s not you. You’re kinda fucked up! Congrats!” Ian opens his mouth and Mickey keeps talking. “So am I! So’s everyone. You can’t just turn yourself into a fucking hermit because you have shit you gotta do, and people are gonna miss you if you do.” He stops, because he didn’t really mean to say that and Ian’s eyes are huge and it’s all too much.

Ian takes a deep breath and sits down on the corner of his bed again. “You don’t have to—“

“Anything I don’t wanna do, except write this fucking Defense Against the Dark Arts essay by Friday morning, which I could use your help on you know. If you can accept the fact that I’m not gonna tell anybody and I don’t care.”

“I missed you too,” Ian says very quietly.

“Don’t get all soppy. You got a reputation to uphold or something.”

“Fuck off,” Ian says, but he’s smiling crookedly and tiredly. Mickey crosses the room to sit down on the corner of Ian’s bed.

“They let you come back to school, that’s reason for optimism,” he says. Ian sighs again. It seems to Mickey that he looks more like himself than he has for a month. His body has relaxed, unwound a little.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have to take this Wolfsbane stuff, takes like shit. Not that it really matters anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well,” Ian shifts on the bed, looking down at his hands. “Nobody’s ever gonna consider me to be an Auror now.”

“Why the fuck not?” Mickey turns to look at him. Ian’s jaw is tight again. “That wasn’t true a month ago. You made me wait in the cold for two hour while you ran drills by yourself before you’d fuck!”

“There are no werewolf Aurors,” Ian says. “Nobody’s going to want to take the risk. Might as well just drop out—Oi!” Mickey has smacked his knee, angrily.

“Fuck no!” Mickey shouts.

“Merlin’s balls, Mickey, ow!” Ian rubs his knee. “What was that for?”

“Out of the two of us, I’m the one who’s fucked for life,” Mickey jabs Ian’s knee with his pointer finger.

“Don’t say that—“

“I still don’t know why the fuck you’d want to be an Auror at all,” Mickey says, and Ian starts to reach out and shove him off the bed but he grabs onto Ian’s wrists before he can make contact. He’s definitely strong, a lot stronger than Mickey remembers him being, but he’s also tired. “Too much work, have to give your time and energy to the fucking Ministry. I can’t see why you’d want to. But you do, I know you do. So you will.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Ian says quietly. “You’re probably right. I’d probably hate it.”

“Like hell you would! Gallagher! There’s not a law against it, is there?” Ian doesn’t say anything. “Is there?”

“Not technically, not anymore,” Ian says shakily. “But nobody will—it’s—it’s impossible, Mickey—“

“Don’t fucking tell me what’s impossible,” Mickey snaps. Ian inhales, a sharp sound, and he meets Mickey’s eyes, really meets them, for the first time in a while.

“There aren’t any now? You’ll be the first. You’ll make it happen, don’t tell me you fucking won’t.”

Ians hands are shaking; Mickey can tell because his fingers are still around Ian’s wrists. He lets go. “Mickey—“ he says.

“I’ll even let you throw me in jail a few times, bump up your arrest record,” Mickey grins, and Ian rolls his eyes and looks like himself a little more, a bright-eyed  kid, now with something heavy hanging over his shoulders. Mickey wants to help. He doesn’t have any idea what the fuck he can do about it, but he feels the stirrings of something so absolutely Hufflepuffy inside his chest. It’s horrifying.

“You’re a git,” Ian says. He smiles.  “I don’t really know what to say, I—“

“Don’t say anything,” Mickey says, and the warm feeling in his chest and bundle of nerves in his gut tell him that this is an important moment, one he should remember, may due attention to. He takes a decisive breath, and he leans forward. Ian starts a little, surprised, and then Mickey kisses him. 

His mouth lands a little clumsily, a little uneasily, getting the corner of Ian's mouth instead of the center. His own hands feel like they're wavering a little when he pulls back. Ian's face is flushed a little and he looks less tired and young, and happy. So Mickey kisses him again, catching Ian's chin with his fingers, sliding his other hand up Ian's knee. Ian's hands, his fingers a little chilly, cup the back of Mickey's head. Mickey doesn't kiss people, he just doesn't. Hasn't. Didn't. This feeling is terrifying and exhilarating and the only way he can think of to describe it is he's being filled up with helium and he'll just float away. Ian's mouth is warm, and he can feel a few days' growth of stubble on his chin as it brushes Mickey's chin, and he can't remember ever feeling this close to anyone like this ever before. 

Ian pulls back again a little so their faces are inches apart, noses touching for a second, and he smiles, and Mickey smiles, and then Ian leans in again. 

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the poem 'start here' by caitlyn siehl


End file.
